My candle would not burn, unless i turned it upside down. Or sideways, any-which-way but standard.

Lay me, down on my side, and if my flame is combustible . My wick is ajar my petals will creek.

Yet I’m not out of flame. Cider & Warm Spices, I give because you did not toss me aside. I give, because what is love, unless it’s given away? And what is love unless it bleeds? A heavy love of surrender- of- things, giving itself back to me.